


Story of her life - Operation Mocking Bird

by iamhopeless_com



Series: Story of her life [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Female John Watson, Prequel, Torture, triggery stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24681115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamhopeless_com/pseuds/iamhopeless_com
Summary: Bonus chapter for Story of her life AU. Sort of prequel that didn't fit in the story flow. Won't make any sense if you hadn't read the main story. BAMF Fem!John (obviously).
Series: Story of her life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784434
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Story of her life - Operation Mocking Bird

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make any sense if you hadn't read chapters 14 to 16 of Story of her life. This is the back-story of the VHS recording. It also gives a bit of background to the relationship between Joan, Seven and Liam.

2nd Lieutenant Joan Watson stumbled into her tent after a very long day in the field hospital. They had an altercation with the enemy two days prior, and she had finally managed to stitch up, bandage and put together everyone she could. There were a couple of patients that awaited transfer by helicopter to Kabul's central hospital, and others were stable. Her nurses were competent enough to manage for the evening, just the time for her to catch some sleep and a decent meal.

The moment she entered her small personal quarters, she felt someone's presence. Instantly on high alert, she dived and twisted, blindly attacking the intruder. Her punch was blocked with a soft "Wow there!" that she recognized.

"Don't ever sneak up on me again." The blond man just grinned shamelessly. "I mean it, James."

"Wanted to surprise you" he said, not concerned in the least.

"I haven't slept since Wednesday. Sorry, not sorry for being jumpy" she sighed over her shoulder, plopping on the bunk bed.

"That bad?" He sat next to her, snuggling his arm around her waist.

"Yeah. So, what's up?" Her head found a perfect cushion on his shoulder, and her eyelids were feeling incredibly heavy now.

The chuckle rumbled deep through his chest, and she could hear it reverberate under her ear. "I had a little something to do in the region. And I might need some help tomorrow." Joan yawned, forcing herself to listen. "Do you need a pillow tonight?" he asked gently.

"Might as well…" the doctor mumbled, falling asleep while talking.

**# #**

It had been a good night. Usually, running around for fifty hours on coffee and pure adrenaline, and sewing up people tended to bring its lot of nightmares. But James's presence had a calming effect, and Joan slept unperturbed through the night. She woke up to the heavy-lidded gaze of her guest. "Morning, sunshine" he smiled at her.

"Morning, my magic pillow" she said in return, rolling away and stretching. "So, you were saying about help?"

The man barked a laugh. "You are all business, no fun, Jay-bird."

"We are in a war zone."

"We are alone in your tent. On your bed."

"It's a bunk bed" she protested when his hands pulled her closer.

"Whatever" he smirked into her neck. Joan just half-heartedly swatted his back. And painfully pulled his hair for good measure.

They emerged from the tent an hour later, when the sun peaked a little over the horizon, with James looking incredibly smug. Watson looked no different from normal but gave her companion mock glares from time to time. "Are you going to spill, or what?" she finally asked, when they reached the field hospital.

"Actually, I need to speak to your head officer first" he replied, finally getting serious. "But if I need a convoy, would you mind being included?"

Joan smiled. "Yeah, no problem." _It would be a nice change from the routine._

They chatted a little more, before Dr Watson had to start her rounds, and special agent Seven had to honour his breakfast appointment with Colonel Smith.

Before the sun could reach its peak in the sky, a convoy escorting a stuffy-looking government official with a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and composed of a couple of covert MI6 agents and regular soldiers, left the base.

In three hours, in the middle of nowhere, an IED exploded under the front car, and a rain of bullets fell upon the others. Seven was in the rear vehicle and had been clipped by a bullet to his head, successfully stunning him. When he came to himself, he was met with stifling heat, and a mix of pained moans and angry swearing. The fight was over.

"Jay" he remembered, sitting up and almost falling again when his vision swam. Someone rushed to his side, urging him to lay down, to take it easy. He growled something unintelligible, wiping the drying blood from his eyes, and got up to assess the situation. The front vehicle had been destroyed. No one had a chance of survival in there. The middle one was overturned with a lot of suspiciously dark spatter patterns around it, and the rear one was smouldering a few meters away. He watched two men attempting quite amateurishly to triage the casualties. His heart sank. The medical effort wouldn't be so badly organized if Watson was on the case.

Turning to the officer who was trying to guide him to where everyone was gathered, he grunted: "What happened?"

"Shit happened" snapped the man, clearly not in the mood for resisting patients. Seven noticed the battered RAMC insignia on his forearm.

He attempted his best glare, but let himself be pulled to the group nevertheless. "I was in charge of the escort. Officer, report."

The RAMC officer gave him a dirty look but droned on: "IED explosion at the head of the convoy. Multiple casualties to deplore from it and from the ensuing firefight. Reinforcements inbound in four minutes. Nothing else to report, **sir**."

The blond agent gazed upon the bodies laid in a relative shade of a dried fruit tree. Of sixteen people involved, only four, including himself, were still mobile. Two soldiers were propped against a rock, having received some first aid, but not in any shape to move. Five bodies were covered with tattered vests and laid further away. He winced at the sight of the suit-clad official being one of them. "Your name, officer?" he asked absently, trying to gather his thoughts through the dizziness that threatened to overcome him.

"Sergeant Bill Murray, sir."

 _Something is amiss. Something…_ Five dead. Two injured. Four standing.

_FUCK._

"Where are the others?" he growled. Murray looked at him sombrely, suppressed rage like a dancing firestorm in his hazel eyes. His voice, however, was nothing but professional neutrality.

"They had been incapacitated and taken away while they pushed us back."

Seven looked over the injured again. "Where is Joan Watson?"

"Among the prisoners, sir" came the unforgiving answer.

**# #**

He insisted to stay on site to perform primary investigation. Surprisingly, Bill Murray stayed with him, under the guise of monitoring the head injury. When the helicopter rose, taking away survivors and dead alike, leaving them with a radio and the promise of another copter coming their way, Seven turned towards his self-assigned nurse. "Why are you here?" he inquired sternly.

The sergeant glared at him. "I work with Watson. She trained me. I'm not leaving her behind."

After a long pause, the blond agent nodded, and went to the remains of the front vehicle, talking over his shoulder: "Try not to slow me down, lover-boy."

"Don't go thinking **you** are the norm" grumbled the medic, following him. "I have a fiancée back home."

"Good for you" Seven muttered absently, examining the charred remains of the armoured car. It had taken quite a hit. Four of five casualties were the people riding in it. Two others were severely injured. It wasn't pretty.

The passengers of the middle car, including Watson, had time to get out, and shield themselves, but that didn't help much, as they were all captured. Except for the government prick that got killed. Apparently, they weren't after their secret information after all, as the briefcase laid scorched on the side of the road.

_The operation wasn't targeted._

It was a random attack, intent to take hostages. It just so happened to strike a MI6 operation.

_Dammit. Dammit. They won't dispatch anyone to retrieve them if I report **this**._

Murray seemed to come to the same conclusion, as he grabbed his elbow in a death grip. Seven glanced at the man, ready to fight back. The sergeant was pale under the desert tan, the grime and the spattered blood, but the stubborn set of his jaw revealed a dead-set intent.

Seven sighed.

"You are not to tell anyone what I'm about to do." Surprised, the nurse let go. Fighting the dizzy spell, Seven leaned down to pick up the case. Numbers clicked together and the latch opened. The agent quickly stuffed the documents under his shirt and threw the case inside the wrecked car. "We'll need back-up if we are to rescue the hostages. And we are going to get it."

**# #**

They managed to swing by Joan's tent to hide the documents, before Murray dragged him to the hospital to clean and stitch his wound. That's where the very inconspicuous men in suits ( _very not-discreet in a far-away military base_ ) found them and gently accompanied the pair to the Colonel's office.

"Gentlemen" Smith greeted from his desk, pointedly ignoring the pompous MI6 representative lounging in a chair. Seven recognized him from the London's open space office. He was quite sure the prat had a lower clearance level than him. "You stayed on scene. What are your conclusions?"

"The attack was coordinated. Their objective was the transported information, and hostages, in order to negotiate whatever demands they may have" he reported without batting an eyelid. "I can't stress enough the sensitivity of these documents, sir" he added for good measure.

"I agree with agent here, Colonel" drawled the office rat. "The documents must be retrieved at all costs."

Seven felt Murray stiffen at his right. Sending a scathing glare at the bureaucrat, he continued: "Further, the retrieval of the hostages must be organized."

While his bodyguards remained impassive, the suit-clad idiot sputtered indignantly: "We can't risk our forces on a suicide mission! I will not allow such squandering." Colonel Smith looked about ready to snap the man's neck.

Fortunately, agent Seven had been in business for a very long time. "First of all, note that after Colonel Smith, I am the highest-ranking person here. Which makes your opinion on the matter void of interest, agent Hendricks." He was quite proud of himself for remembering the name. "Second, we do not involve people in operations and then just write them off. Read the latest corporate policy." Hendricks was gaping at him like a gutted fish. "Third, agent Jay was among captured personnel, and is in possession of classified information that must not fall into wrong hands." Both Smith and Murray gave him a very sharp look. They weren't aware of any other agent being on the convoy, apart from Seven and the dead courier. "Are we quite clear, Hendricks? Then put yourself to work" he snapped coldly. The room fell into tense silence.

**# #**

Seven was forced to lay down and attempt to sleep, in exchange for the promise to be woken up as soon as something happened. Unable to close an eye despite feeling a bone-crushing tiredness settle, he just stared blankly at the ceiling. _John Watson had been taken hostage._

_Fuck. Dammit. Damn…_

They had met several years ago. She had tossed him over her shoulder when he tried to sneak into a hospital room to interrogate a potential spy. Then she helped him with the said interrogation, reducing the unlucky sod to tears (he would never look at a needle in the same way again, either).

They met up rather often after that, on leave or in a war zone. Sometimes, they were lovers. Sometimes, they worked together. Sometimes, they were good friends. Sometimes, he showed up at her doorstep, and she stitched him up in silence.

Joan had been one of the rare few to use his real name, and there had been a ridiculous reason for this – she had laughed when he first introduced himself, while picking up his ass from the floor: "Agent Seven? Seriously?"

"Well, a hot James working at MI6, you see where that goes?" he answered without thinking.

"Unfortunately, I do" she chuckled. "So, no double O then? Have you lost your license to kill?"

At some point, the young doctor had become his relief, his drug. Something he wished to keep when this mad lifestyle came to an end. But he craved the danger more than he wanted her at his side. It was far more likely that he'd be killed on a job than go into peaceful retirement anyway. And he saw the same madness blazing in her eyes at night.

But for now, they were in deep shit. He had roped her into this operation. _I will get her back._

**# #**

Seven was woken up by a frantic Bill Murray shaking him. "Wut?" he managed to mutter, while blinking at the dim morning light.

"Get up, you git! You need to see this." The panicked notes in the imperturbable man's voice worked better than caffeine. The world got into sharp focus, and Seven remembered quite clearly the events that lead to this rude wake-up call.

"What is it?" he snapped, putting on his shoes and sprinting after the medic in the badly lit corridor.

"Hendricks put himself into gear." There was no love lost for the other agent here. "Launched a worldwide search or something. And came upon a life transmission from a ninety kilometres radius around here." He gulped, fists clenching reflexively and pace quickening even more.

"I'm not going to like it, do I?"

"Not a chance."

They pushed revolving doors to the IT room together, almost bowling over a harried private who was trying to sneak out. Hendricks was typing furiously at a derelict keyboard, looking a little green. He gave them a sharp nod, not tearing his eyes away from the shimmering screen, and pointed to the neighbouring computer. Seven absently wondered since when the office rat became their resident hacker. Bill trailed behind, giving off the vibe of someone who's about to break something in a spectacular manner.

Frowning hard at the presented screen, Seven decided to get it over with and clicked on the recording.

**# #**

There was only static at first. Then a man, skin burned by the desert, face hidden by a white cloth. He talked with a heavy accent: "We will not tolerate the intervention of foreign agents any more. Until you surrender, we will continue doing this."

The camera switched to a young man, barely twenty, hair mated with dirt and green eyes blown with panic, tears marring his cheeks and hands tied at his back. He was wearing a teared British Royal Army uniform, identifying him as a private.

"Blame your government for your death" rumbled the voice off-screen, before a small red dot bloomed on the private's forehead in a deafening crack, and he fell on the side, revealing several prisoners on the floor behind him.

Four soldiers, all sporting British uniforms in various states of messed up, were kneeling on the dirt floor, watching in horror as one of theirs was executed. Most of them looked in deep shock, but one jerked forward, roaring a string of profanities in several languages. A masked man came into the frame, kicking the yelling soldier in the stomach several times. He yanked the head up by the short hair, and the contorted face of a furious Joan Watson came into view. "You'll have to go through me first, you bastards" she hissed.

"We will" responded the captor and the footage cut off.

Static.

**# #**

There was a tense silence, where even Hendricks stopped typing, then a loud crack of plastic being bend and snapped. James looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see them bleed. He had broken the back of the awful blue plastic chair on which he had been leaning during the video. Tutting, Murray tossed him a handkerchief.

"When was it?" agent Seven inquired softly.

"An hour ago," came Hendricks' reply. "It had been transmitted on a secured and specialized channel. I'm working on triangulating it, but the IP address keeps bouncing around the continent. It might take some time."

"Whatever helps speed up the process, you'll get it" Seven said, glaring at the frozen static of the recording. "Operation Mocking Bird is still on." Hendricks nodded, and went back to his typing.

"What do we do now?" asked Murray. From the looks of it, he was ready to storm the prison single-handedly and weaponless as soon as they got its location. To be honest, James was feeling rather murderous himself.

"We wait for the location."

But the next day, apart from Hendricks getting more frantic and snarkier, they were no changes. Then the second computer beeped in alert, startling the dozing Seven awake. Bill had left for his rounds at some point, and they were all alone in the room. "What's that?"

Liam (as they discovered Hendricks was called around two in the morning along with a few new imaginative insults) eyed the machine with open distrust. "I set up the alert on the channel. They're transmitting again."

Seven lunged forwards and clicked on the small message box. The browser obediently opened.

**# #**

It was the same room. Judging by the light patterns, it was indeed a live transmission. The same four soldiers against the wall, in an exhausted half-slumber. Joan was propped against the hard stone, face slack. She sported fresh bruises and drops of blood smeared on her face and neck. Contrary to her comrades, her ankles were tangled in rope that ran up to a metal ring on the ceiling. Apparently, she had been a very uncooperative prisoner. A captor came into view, dressed in a long white cloth from head to toes. He never showed his face, but his voice rumbled through the bad sound sensors. "Our demands were not met. See the price of your folly." He pulled out an old handgun, aim shifting slowly from one prisoner to another. Joan's eyes fluttered open, still hazy, following blankly the weapon.

Another soldier, young, olive skin, hazel eyes, pierced ear, finally noticed the danger with a panicked gasp. That was his error. The shot rang sharp and loud, jolting the other prisoners awake. With a muffled "no", Watson sprung up, managing to push the killer to the ground. Her feet caught in the rope, and she crushed face first to the floor. Her act of rebellion had a heavy price, as three other insurgents rushed in, hoisting her up not too gently.

The executioner got up, dusting his ruined white clothes as he went. Without warning he back-handed the struggling doctor with the gun. She slumped in the grip of the two men holding her arms, head lulling to the side. A slow trickle of blood ran down her chin. "Every act against us, is a slight against God. Retribution shall fall" he said unwaveringly, before turning back to the wide-eyed immobile soldiers, and shooting another one (the oldest, but not older than forty, greying hair, stubborn jaw).

An anguished moan escaped Joan, loud and desperate in the crystalline silence that lasted seconds after the shot. Even the best of medics couldn't save people shot squarely in the head. She was tossed back against the wall, sliding painfully down, unable to move anymore.

Static.

**# #**

Fighting a gag reflex, Liam typed a command to finish the recording. James was staring at the screen in pure horror, unable to tear his eyes away even after the image was gone.

"They already killed three of them" he finally said.

"I know." The typing resumed, punctuated only by gulps of coffee and tired blinks.

**# #**

The next morning, there were no symbolic statements, nor guns, but fists pounding the flesh, and whips, making harsh cracking noises. Bloodied soldiers were forced to stand up whenever one of them fell. They had been blindfolded, hands tied in front of them. Their shoulders jerked nervously at every crack, at every fleshy sound of the skin cracking under the assault. Long angry lines were oozing blood on both of them under ripped uniforms, and it seemed there was no piece of skin untouched. Aside from the sickening sounds of whips, torturers grunting with effort, the scene was eerily quiet. Only the prisoner's harsh inhales indicated that they were indeed in excruciating pain.

Static.

**# #**

Same day, only a few hours later. The prisoners looked famished, exhausted. The man was still blindfolded and tied securely. Joan had been dragged in front of the camera and dropped down. An insurgent, possibly the same who executed the three soldiers, came into view, rounding the limp body of the doctor. He lifted her chin up with two fingers, as if disgusted. She spat into his face.

He didn't retaliate immediately this time. Gesturing to someone at the side, he gripped her neck, and placed her so the camera could capture her face. A detached arm handed him a whip. It looked heavier than the previous one.

He swung it in silence, and the impact made Joan choke on a pained cry. At the next strike, she cried out. After five, Joan passed out.

Static.

**# #**

Seven was camping in the computer room, glaring at the screen, as if to dare it to spout another live feed. Bill Murray hovered nearby, pacing nervously, hands twisting and bending a ballpoint pen. Hendricks appeared on the verge of collapse. While he had been an arrogant prick two days prior, he had redeemed himself by the unwavering effort in pinpointing the transmission. Apparently, watching people executed and tortured did a lot for getting his shit together.

"There won't be anyone left alive after the next video" Seven stated into the void with a dead voice. Bill stopped in his tracks, taking large gulps of air, and blinking at the wall.

Liam, in the other hand, exploded, pounding hard both fists on the table: "SHUT UP!" He breathed heavily. "Shut up" he repeated more quietly, before resuming his work as if nothing happened.

**# #**

The break-through came in late afternoon. Something beeped, blinked, and Hendricks was slumping in his chair with a barely concealed moan. "What?!" Murray rushed to him but was waved off.

"We got them."

Seven sprung up to life, grabbing Murray by the elbow and dragging him off. "Get some sleep" he yelled at Liam before leaving. "We're up in two hours, you'll guide us from here."

In the corridor, Bill managed to free his arm and rounded on the agent. "I'm going."

The other man side-stepped him easily. "I wasn't intending to let you sit it out."

In two hours top, a commando of eight left the base. In twenty-seven minutes, they reached the hidden terrorist base. The infiltration proceeded as standard for several minutes, but it was a little difficult to be sneaky with eight grown-up men out for blood. The firefight broke out, luckily turning in favour of the soldiers, who pushed their advantage. Meeting the eyes of the RAMC officer covering his flank, Seven knew that they weren't leaving without Watson, even if they had to dig through the mountain with their bare hands.

At the quarters, Hendricks was shouting into the com-link, when the computer beeped with the new live feed.

**# #**

This time, it was a new room, similarly dreary and dusty. Joan was slumped between two insurgents, who held her up by elbows. She appeared barely conscious, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed with fever, bare feet dragging on the ground. The lifeless form of her fellow prisoner could be seen slumped in a sitting position in the background. The executioner in white came into the frame, turning to the camera to start his speech. Joan suddenly slumped even more, unbalancing her guards.

In a surprisingly fluid movement, she elbowed the man at her right in the solar plexus, gave a sharp kick in the knees to the one on her left, and ripped the gun from the belt of the falling enemy. A moment later, she cocked the weapon, and dark blood sprayed from the executioner forehead to the camera, blurring and tainting the image in red at the corner.

Without losing momentum, she shot towards the objective, the cameraman, then the two men moaning at her feet. All four direct kills.

It took less than a minute.

She stayed frozen in place, still aiming at the bleeding body on the floor, muscles turned into hard stone. She was beaten up, starved and exhausted, burning with fever from infected wounds, but her eyes blazed with deathly fury and vengeance. She had lost her squad in this place.

The reality of still being inside an enemy base, with only two bullets left hit her suddenly, and Joan staggered back, almost slipping in the pool of blood. "Oh god…" she whispered, looking frantically across the room. "Oh god…"

Her hands started to shake violently, still clenched around the handgun, then her body was jolting in uncontrolled shivers. It lasted barely ten seconds, but it was painful to watch her break.

Deep breaths. "Right" Joan steadied herself.

She didn't have time to take a step forward when muffled noise sounded from somewhere behind the screen. It quickly became apparent that a fire fight broke out outside. The doctor's features hardened, and she aimed the gun at the door, hands dead steady. The noise grew closer.

Someone must have opened the door to the room, as Joan's narrowing eyes were the only warning sign before the shot. A muffled "Fuck!" indicated that the target wasn't reached. Joan didn't move an inch. "Jay? It's us!" a man called out.

Blue eyes widened in wavering hope. "Sev?..." she whispered through dried lips, gun already pointing to the ground. "Found her!" the man cried out to someone, and then Joan's knees gave out and she was falling face first to the pool of blood. Someone rushed into the room, knocking off the camera. It fell to the side and cracked but continued to film. A pair of dusty combats boots could be seen, supporting the bare-footed soldier. "Got you" said the voice. Then he lifted Joan up and ran out of the room.

Blood on the dust. Distant noise of guns firing.

Static.

**# #**

Joan was the only living hostage they managed to rescue. Surprisingly, and fortunately, the base wasn't well guarded, and eight well trained men managed to wipe it clean in a matter of hours. Reinforcements tumbled down the hill, and Seven practically jumped into the medical helicopter that landed at the outskirts of the raided base, Bill Murray close on his heels. The broken body of Watson was swiftly secured, and flown to Kabul, where she was rushed into surgery.

Both men in dirty combat fatigues slumped in cold chairs in the waiting room.

"Hey, Seven…" Murray wasn't privy to the agent's name.

"Yeah?"

"Was there really an agent Jay?"

James watched the sergeant from the corner of his eye before coming to a decision. "There is" he said simply.

His companion took a moment to process, and his hazel eyes widened with realization. Biting his lower lip, he nodded slightly, sliding further down his chair. The waiting was the worst part of the day.

**# #**

It had been three days since the rescue operation. Joan Watson had been put together, stitched up, disinfected, bandaged and overall out of danger. Doctors even assured that there would be only minor scarring left. Bill Murray had returned to base after checking on his friend – he couldn't extend his absence any longer. Liam Hendricks dropped by before flying back to London. Agent Seven stayed in the hospital room, stubbornly not leaving the injured doctor's side.

After one day of rem-sleep, Joan opened her eyes, but didn't react to any stimuli. James felt a cold and clumpy fear seize his innards in a death grip. The lively woman just laid there, staring blankly into the void. Medics explained that it was the PTSD kicking in, and that she needed time to come out of it. James just couldn't fathom what horrors had been done to break the strongest person he ever met. He had watched the recordings, but they were just staged snippets of what actually happened in that cave. His hands itched to disembowel those who did it to his friend, his treasure, but they had already been killed in the raid.

Then he started to talk. Small things, comments, rambling, really, about all and nothing.

"I don't know how you bear the heat on constant basis, John. I'm all for a nice sunny beach, but the desert? It's just overkill."

"You have some nice underlings, ya know. Wonder if Murray would jump in our wagon? He'd do well on the field."

"Are you going to talk to your father again one day? I think of mine sometimes. You really should talk."

"Marcus told me about that nice Indian place in Soho last time. We should go there next time you're on leave."

"Please, get better."

"We haven't informed your sister about this whole fiasco yet, by the way. It **was** a secret operation, after all."

"Jay, look at me, please. John. Joan…"

He took her hand in his at some point, clutching as if to a lifeline. It was soft and warm. Alive.

"Don't you dare go like this, Watson" he muttered, feeling lost and drained.

The pillow rustled very softly, as the blond soldier turned her head to face him, blue eyes still dark and haunted, but focused and aware. James felt his heart explode with relief, then drop and shatter at her first words, uttered in a raspy, disused voice: "Sorry, James… Part of me never left that cave." _You didn't really save her, did you, James._

They stared at each other for centuries, guilt and regrets crackling in the air. This moment was shattered by a middle-aged nurse entering. She looked surprised to see her patient cognizant and hurried to check her vitals. Once finished, she looked questioningly at the silent pair for a second, before her face lit up. "Oh, Miss Watson, something came up in your bloodwork…"


End file.
